He Was Too Late
by LetMeWriteYouAStory
Summary: Sad Johnlock one-shot. Taking place post- the Sign of Three. How does Sherlock handle the wedding?


**FEELSY JOHNLOCK ONE-SHOT AHEAD. ENJOY. ;)**

* * *

The ride back to 221B Baker Street felt three times as long as it had felt on the way to the wedding. Although Sherlock was unaware of the time, unaware of most things, actually, as the taxi passed flashing headlights and street lamps in a pulsing blur. The cabbie threw concerned glances back at his passenger, for the man's eyes were red and fluttering, his teeth clenched, and his entire demeanor in a strange stupor. He would've seemed intoxicated or ill, but the cabbie had seen that look on dozens before, especially that late at night, when exhaustion sets in and emotions are heightened. This was heartbreak.

The cab pulled up besides Speedy's Cafe and 221B, and the passenger, with long, unsteady fingers, handed the cabbie his fare. With a little choking noise, he stumbled from the vehicle.

Sherlock staggered up to the door, trying as hard as possible to not let this sentiment overtake him. He was failing. He twisted open the door and almost fell inside, leaning back against it as he shoved it shut behind him. He had not even observed that the knocker had been set perfectly straight.

Presuming himself to be alone, he put his hands to his face and felt his body heave involuntarily. He was startled by the wetness in his eyes.

_One word, Sherlock, that is all I would've needed._

One word.

But he had taken John's companionship for granted. He was so stupid. To assume that John would simply wait for him, would accept him back. That everything would stay the same.

No. Sherlock had let John Watson down; he destroyed that era.

He.  
Was.  
Too.  
_Late._

He pushed himself up; lurched for the stairs. Clutching the railing with one hand and the wall with another, he made it only a few steps before he was forced to stop again. His body shook. His stomach and his entire body felt like it would turn itself completely inside out; he could not bear it. Opening his mouth to cry out, no sound came, only an overflow of tears down onto his coat collar. Frantically he bit down on his hand, half to try to relieve the stress, and half in the hopes that the pain would jolt him back to the world of unfeeling that was his shock blanket. Neither worked.

For the first time ever, Sherlock had taken down a wall. He'd let himself be vulnerable; to feel the strongest love for the one person he cared about most in the world. He'd been so emotionally invested in John.

_Just one person._

And that one person, Sherlock had now lost.

His whole body was shuddering like a structure under too much pressure as he wept into his hand. _John. Beautiful John._

Step by step, he made it up the stairs. At the top, he pulled himself into the living room, where there was no longer any reason for two chairs, and stopped was Mycroft. Sitting nonchalantly in John's chair.

Of course. The knocker had been straightened.

Mycroft's face was, at first, for whatever reason he was there, one of irritation and slight confusion. But in a fraction of a moment, looking over his little brother's posture and the pain on his face, he understood. His features softened into comprehension and sadness. He knew now.

Sherlock no longer could find much reason to care. A little tear dripped down his nose. What was the point of a facade?

To Mycroft, Sherlock looked so much like the little, vulnerable boy he had been once upon a time, the child who'd fallen in love with Redbeard, the child who'd shattered at the death of him. Never since then had Sherlock looked quite so broken.

Very slowly, he rose to his feet. He walked across the room, to Sherlock, who's lips were pursed in an effort to keep the weeping down. Reaching out, he pulled his little brother cautiously into his arms, unsure and uncomfortable. He was no better at dealing with sentiment.

To his surprise, Sherlock squeezed him tight, like a lifeline, and Mycroft could feel him trembling like a child as he sobbed almost silently. It was entirely heartbreaking.

"Oh, Sherlock. I told you not to get involved."

* * *

Later that night, Sherlock still in a wordless, distraught state of semi-consciousness, it was Mycroft that helped him into his bedroom, who tucked him beneath the covers. Who drugged his tea just enough to ensure that his little brother would sleep quickly and deeply, to temporarily escape that newfound, raw pain in his heart.


End file.
